the Nilfgaard Raid
by MikeRayburn2481
Summary: Geralt is mourning the loss of both his lover and his adopted daughter to the machinations of Nilfgaardian politics, by spending his time traveling the politically outcast isles of Skellige. After months among the clans he meets a duelist on Faroe who rekindles the spark of life in him, and leads him on an adventure that will test the tenuous political reality on the continent
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Geralt had spent far more time on An Skellige then he had originally intended. Hell, he had spent a lot more time in Skellige period. He had arrived just as winter was breaking. Not long after one of the hardest days in his life; the day Ciri told him she wouldn't be traveling with him to live the life of a witcher, but rather would be going back to Nilfgaard to assume her birthright. Compounding his anguish was his lover Yennefer's decision to go with her. It's not as though they left Geralt high and dry. She had begged him to come along…both had. But deep down both had to know he could never accept. As much as it pained him her reasoning made sense. More than that it made him proud. The Third Nordling War was over and Nilfgaard had accepted a near unconditional surrender from the North. Only Temeria had been left with some semblance of autonomy intact. Ciri knew as well as Geralt that there would never be peace in the North as long as this new status quo remained. Only Ciri could manage to give the North back some freedom while protecting the non-humans it routinely abused with its former absolute freedom. But all the reasoning in the world couldn't quell the ache in his core. So like he had everytime life was life, he headed for one of his favorite places; the Isles of Skellige.

The simplicity of its people and the freedom they bequeathed made it most attractive for a wandering witcher with no family or nation. Ostensibly he had arrived looking for the witcher gear hidden across the isles decades ago when Witchers were plentiful and routinely needed equipment when south of the Pontar without traveling back to northeastern Kaedwen.

He had sailed aboard a longship to Kaer Trolde, paying his respects to his good friends, Hjalmar and her sister, Queen Cerys. While Skellige may have been one of his favorite places to relax, it wasn't one of the best to find contracts. Skellige were proud and hardy folk who would just as soon wear a dress as they would hire a witcher to solve a monster problem. But in Rannvaig he came across one of those rare instances in the form of an old villager named Odhen, whose son Olve had run off with a group of Faroese treasure seekers to search through the ruins of an old fortress destroyed in a Nilfgaardian raid. There Geralt had found a body with the telltale signs of mauling by a large fiend. It was a giant of a beast named Morvuud, whom Geralt had chased to the Nilfgaardian destroyed village of Boxholm where he finally destroyed the ancient one in its lair. A lair that was littered with the bodies of Olve and some of his Faroese mates.

From there Geralt rented a small ship of his own at Fyresdal and sailed for Faroe, one of the two islands Vesemir believed his old mentor could've stashed the witcher gear. It took most of the day even with a good wind at his back as he had to stop at nearly every small patch of rocks to allow Roach to stretch his legs, before the rocky outcropping of the second smallest of the inhabited isles came into view. What it lacked in size it more than made up for in ferocity of spirt, as Faroese were known throughout the isles and even the continent as the fiercest fighters. That spirit was embodied by none better than their Jarl, Holger Blackhand, who was waiting outside the tavern as Geralt weaved his small schooner in between the massive longships berthed in the harbor.

"Geralt of Rivia? What the fuck are ye doing here?" the harsh looking Skelliger croaked as Geralt approached. The Jarl took his name from the reprecussions of a severe case of frostbite that had enveloped his right hand some winters back and had turned it black initially. Now it was more red, but the original name had stuck.

"Holger, it's good to see you again as well. How are things on Faroe?"

"Same as ever, it's a rock covered in scrub" the middle aged warrior spat, chewing on a twig of wood.

"I can see the pride bursting out of you" Geralt mocked sarcastically.

Holger didn't seem to notice the jest. "No sense in smearing honey on shit. We may not be able to grow food, but we can grow timber, enough to build longships so that we can go and take the food someone else has grown".

Geralt wasn't about the argue the morality of raiding and was glad when Holger changed the subject unbidden. "So what brings you to us white wolf?"

Geralt really did see something on the plateau overlooking the village to the east, but he also wanted a reason to not fivulge he was here looking for any kind of treasure the Faroese could be enticed to keep for themselves. "What's going on up there?" he asked instead.

Holger grunted. Skelligers respected privacy of thought as well as property. "That would be Jutta, showing some of our boys how a true Faroese duelist fights" he said without taking his eyes off Geralt.

Geralt grabbed Roach's reins and began walking absent-mindedly towards the twirling female on the rise.

"Be careful Witcher, you'll need all your…enhancements, to handle Jutta" the Jarl called after him with the laugh of someone who drank far too much last night.

He crested the top of the path to the fighting ring just as Jutta floored another fighter with a spinning back kick after knocking his blade from his hands.

She smiled devilishly and then reached out a hand to pick up her defeated foe. As she pulled him from the ground she looked to Geralt, doing a quick double take before talking with her opponent a moment longer. Finally the young man parted with a smile that faded as he locked eyes with Geralt.

"Nice disarm".

"Thanks" she answered brusquely, returning her sword to its scabbard and gathering up her water pouch.

"But you left your front foot out too long. Could've been turned back on you be a…more worthy opponent".

Still not looking at Geralt she threw her head back and forced a barking laugh. "And I take it you're a more worthy opponent?"

"Care to find out?"

"My time is valuable, and I don't duel just anyone…especially continentals" she picked up a tunic off the ground and turned to face Geralt, who was now just a meter from her.

He could always tell when someone just noticed his eyes for the first time as their's always widened as their head invariably cocked slightly to the side.

"You're a witcher?"

"I am" Geralt replied, his hands still resting on his belt.

"And what's your name…I won't duel just anyone"

"Geralt of Rivia"

"…Never heard of you" she said but her pause was enough to let Geralt know that was a lie.

"And since I've never head of you or your deeds you will need to perform one before I duel you"

"And what feat would you like to see from me? Wrestle a bear? Kill a nest of drowners?"

She played as though she were thinking long and hard about a suitable test when Geralt knew she had had something specific in mind since she realized he was a witcher. "A ship went down two winters back in the deep waters off the western cliffs. There is a sword on board that's a relic. Bring it to me and I will duel you".

It wasn't much of a job, but then again Geralt didn't have much of a life right now. Besides, if he was honest Jutta had a hard beauty that reminded him of Yen. Plus, finding a woman that could best him at swordplay was a closely held fantasy of his. "Alright, I'll get your sword…and I'll get my duel".

"Be careful what you wish for" she called after him mockingly.

Geralt got to the Western cliffs without too much trouble. 'Too much' being a small nest of harpies. The sword was even less trouble. 'Less trouble' being that it was far too deep for anyone who hadn't undergone the Trial of the Grasses to get to it…even a Skelliger.

He returned to Jutta just a couple hours after he had left her. She tried to hide just how she impressed she was at his quick return.

"I guess it's true what they say about you" she called, finishing a riposte of the air in front of her and returning her well made blade to its scabbard.

"I thought you hadn't heard of me" he replied with a half smile as he held the balde out in front of him.

She took it gently. "I meant witchers in general of course".

"Of course".

She bit down on a smile of her own and stabbed the sword into the ground, before pulling out her own. "Shall we?"

Geralt replied with a predatory grin.

"Oh! Oh! Oh my gods" Jutta cried as Geralt stopped thrusting and held himself above her for a moment longer before collapsing in the sweat dampened sheets next to her.

The fire crackled in the pit below her bed as the hard Faroese rains pelted the wood roof above their heads.

"So whose sword was that?"

"…my fathers" she huffed, still winded from their carnal exertion.

As they lay in silence the rain picked up even more. "Is that roof gonna hold?" Geralt asked. He got no verbal response so turned his head to see a withering stare that old him not to question Faroese craftsmanship…or maybe her own.

"The weather has been unusual this year" she said, relenting a bit.

"Some say the gods weep for King Bran" she added when Geralt did not respond. "…Still others say they weep for the ascent of Queen Cerys".

"Do you?" he asked still staring at the thatched roof overhead.

His aloofness must have finally got to her as he felt her nestle into the nook of his shoulder.

"Do I what?" she said playfully from the top of his chest.

Now Geralt did finally turn his eyes back to the beautiful Skelliger rubbing slowly against him.

"Do you weep for a queen?"

She flashed a deadly smile. Tiring of Geralt's lack of reciprocation she climbed on top of him. She grabbed hold of him and began to lower herself down. "Hardly. If a woman can be the best duelist on Faroe, one can surely manage the lower clans of the lesser isles". The last word was stifled by a moan as wind buffeted the tiny beachhouse.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

A casual night had turned into a casual week. Before long Geralt had grown used to waking to Jutta's sleeping face next to him. He enjoyed life here. Far away from power mad emperors, scheming crimelords and the like. He did miss Dandelion and Zoltan, but knew they would still be at the Chameleon whenever he decided to return. For now, the Faroese routine of fishing in the day, and regaling locals with tales of witchering in the pub at night was a tonic for Geralt's weary soul. Sadly, the rain that accompanied their first night together had yet to relent any night since.

This particular evening the rain clouds were gathering again as Geralt steered his skiff past the mighty longships still docked in the harbor at Harviken. But storm clouds of another kind were gathering in the village as Jutta walked out onto the dock to meet him with a kiss.

"get at him the spineless cunt!" a large Faroese yelled from around a quickly forming circle.

Geralt and Jutta trotted quickly to burgeoning scuffle. As they approached they saw the Jarl using his black, and pale hand, to lift a council member named Ulric off the ground. "This is not the way it works Holger!" the man was struggling to say.

"It works however the fuck I say it works!" Holger snapped, and spat into the man's face to cheers and curses from his followers.

"And I say I don't give a frozen shit what that fiery bitch in Kaer Trolde thinks of how we survive winters" he finally released the man on to his backside.

"It's not what she thinks Jarl, it's what she'll do" the man risked with a placating hand.

"We survived Bran, I think we can survive her" a large red head man said from the half circle.

"Bran wasn't a new king when we raided Spikeroog, and he sure as shit didn't have to overcompensate for a pair of tits" the man answered as he rose to his feet and knocked the wet sand off his ass, and Geralt found a blossoming respect for the old man. "We hit Drummond territory and she'll bring everything she's got at us, and won't rest until she sees you in the Vigur" he added, referring to ice dungeon beneath Kaer Trolde.

Holger turned and started towards the man again. "Cut the shit Holger" Geralt said stepping between them.

"Out of my way Witcher. Putting your cock in a Faroe lass doesn't make you a Faroe man" he snapped as he tried to push past him.

Geralt put a hand on his shoulder and jerked him to a stop, which is when he heard the telltale sign of steel on steel as a dozen swords were yanked from their scabbard.

"Put em down boys" He heard Jutta say in her sing song way and he glanced to his right to see her holding her blade away from them but with a threat still indicated.

"Get your fucking hand off me" the Jarl said, quieter, but still with deadly menace.

"I will, just hear me out".

"I don't want to hear any of your continental bullshit about finding another way".

"No we need to raid, there's no way around that". Holger turned to him fully for the first time and Geralt released his shoulder. Within seconds swords started going back into scabbards and the immediate danger had passed.

"I've seen the food stores. These storms have ruined the season…I'm just suggesting we hit someone richer than the Drummonds" Geralt said loud enough for everyone to hear.

"Ay? Who? The fecking An Craites?!" came another voice from the gallery.

Geralt just shook his head and flashed a quick half smile to Jutta.

A half day later they were sailing a cross wind near a little unnamed spread of rocks just past the named uninhabited island of Sitla. The wind was produced a regular spray from the starboard side as Geralt grabbed Holger and walked him to the port side. Pointing to a half-submerged vessel Holger spoke up. "Ay! The Black Ones, their ship went down to Hjalmar two summers back. You better have something better than this white one".

"They didn't just lose their ship. They lost their men, swords, and their armor". He let that sink in as he leaned back over the balustrade. It took a minute, but then the Faroese had never been renowned for their intellectual pursuits.

"Ay…fucking ay! We'll hit Drummond dressed as Black Ones" he said slapping the gunnel next to Geralt. _It took a minute to get half of it anyway_ Geralt thought as he turned to Clan Dimun's Jarl. "We'll hit the Black Ones dressed as Black Ones".

"Ay?"

"Ay" Geralt confirmed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

It didn't take much convincing when they got back to Harviken. No one was really thrilled about the prospect of undertaking a Skellige tradition disguised as anyone else, let alon Black Ones. But if they were honest, they were less thrilled about the prospect of antagonizing Cerys and her brother Hjalmar. Bran had been a powerful king, but the former Jarl of An Skellige didn't carry the same traditional clout as the An Craite's do.

The new political reality on the continent saw the northern kingdoms as nothing more than a Nilfgaardian harvest. In exchange for autonomy the four primary kingdoms of the north paid a hefty tax in both gold and produce. So four times a year, this ransom was collected and driven south to Bremervoord, before taking a ship the rest of the way south.

Bremervoord was the westernmost city on the continent belonging to the small Nilfgaardian vassal state of Cidaris. Most of their economy was built on maritime trade and they were renowned as sailors. They also currently had a party of faux Nilfgaardians waiting in the darkness two miles off their coast.

One of those imposters, Eist, had been in the crow's nest for hours staring through a spyglass. Like all of the men on this mission, Eist was a black haired man. Even Geralt had to use ochre and pinion tree sap to dye his white mane. But unlike most of the men Eist was in his fifties. Finally, the man who had jokingly taken the Nilfgaardian name of Elan whistled.

"Black Ones…but they got an escort" he rasped, his voice low like that of a man who knew how sound traveled over water.

"They what?" Holger croaked at his man high above.

Eist simply shrugged. "They got a fucking escort, what do you want from me?"

That drew a smattering of laughs from the men…including his Jarl.

"Well? What do you say witcher?" Holger continued after the moment passed.

"I was led to believe the midnight launch was their security…guess they felt too many people were noticing their routine".

"Well they were fucking right about that".

"What do you want to do? Call it off?" Geralt asked.

His question drew sneers from the men around him and Holger looked like he was going to spit at his feet. "Don't ever fuckin insult me like that again. We go".

Geralt smiled inwardly. "Alright, remember…leave the speaking to me".

As expected the repaired Nilfgaardian dromond they sailed in threw off the convoy. They even furled sails as they approached.

"Quarter sail" Geralt called out, as quietly as he could.

"Quarter fecking sail? You'll give them time to react" Holger's breath stank like a stale mead and fish.

"You want to start shouting we're here to attack?" he said without looking and could feel the man tense next to him. "Good, then quarter fecking sail".

A kilometer out Geralt could see a man at the ship's stern holding up a welcoming hand. Geralt raised his in return. Looking at the number of men on both ships he was becoming seriously resentful of the Nilfgaardian policy towards women in battle. They were gonna need Jutta before the night was done. "I got a plan".

A half kilometer…then a quarter kilometer. Finally Geralt looked to the stern. "Caemm" he spoke the word for 'go' in Elder speech, and Erik and Bel unfurled the masts.

He saw the mouths of the men turn upside down as they flew by the stern of the cargo ship. Geralt raised the tri-hook and began swinging it over his head. He could see on the Nilfgaardians raise his hand again, still hoping this was some joke. Geralt released the hook and it sailed across the black distance, bedding itself in the cargo ship's stern rail just before the ship's ram plowed into the escort ship below the waterline

"Aenye" Geralt yelled and their four archers from the mountains above Harviken, began unleashing flaming arrows into the stern gunnel on either side of the hook, deterring anyone brave enough to try and dislodge the hook or cut the line. The biggest lads in Faroe began pulling the aptly named _Morvud,_ or _Enemy,_ towards their bounty with quarter mast speed, as the escort ship began to list behind them.

Geralt was the first to leap over the gunnel, just a minute after striking the escort ship. He so badly wanted to use aard on the Nilfgaardians fumbling for their swords beneath him. Instead he came down with a diagonal slice across the neck and chest of the man on his right, and followed through with a horizontal slash across the belly of the man to his left from a knee. He bounced up quickly, taking out two more onrushing soldiers in a quick series of parries and slashes.

A number of the more courageous Nilfgaardians gave up on their sinking vessel and swam for the besieged cargo ship. But the brave fools were quickly struck down before climbing over the gunnel. Without reinforcements the battle was over in minutes. They tied up the handful of Black Ones that surrendered and began loading the manifest of fish, venison, corn, and fruit, onto the _Morvud._

One of those tied up southerners began to get wise to the tall, fair skinned countrymen loading creates and ignoring his foul mouthed insults. Finally he started to say "Hey big man! Where are you-" _thwack!_ A kick from Geralt to the jaw ended his inquiries for the night.

There was a lot of singing, and a lot of drinking, as the Morvud rode a strong crosswind on the three day journey back to Faroe. There was also a lot of pats on the back and toasts to Geralt. And for more than a moment, with Jutta on his arm, he considered what his life could be like if he ever gave up the path and settled in the isles. Maybe one day…


	4. Chapter 4

**epilogue**

"I hear some survivors claim they were not our own men" said Movran Voorhis over steeped fingers. The commander of the Alba Division, the most powerful regiment of the Nilfgaardian army, left no doubt as to what he thought of these spurrilous reports.

"Defections are at an all-time high" retorted Vattier de Rideaux, and the emperor's intelligence chief didn't know if he said it because he believed it to be valid, or because it contradicted Voorhis.

They were just two of the six advisors sitting in the Emperor's council chamber discussing the latest developments in their new territories. Only six Vattier mused as he still didn't consider the Emperor's daughter, Ciri, and her "advisor" Yennefer of Vengerburg, to be official in any capacity.

"What you call defections I call prisoners of war still being held by the Redanians and all the other two bit factions that still call themselves and independent nation" Voorhis retorted to de Rideaux's backhanded insinuation.

"You are kidding yourself Movran if you think the northerners still have the capability or infrastructure to hold even half the number of our men that are not returning to your _capable_ leadership".

Now Movran moved to stand. "Enough!" the emperor bellowed, slapping a hand to the Mettarin Oak table for emphasis. "These meetings will not be a forum for airing personal animosities".

Movran made a slight bow and retook his seat while Vattier held up a hand of apology.

"Good. Now continue with the report please" Emhyr motioned to de Carthia van Canten, who looked back down at the document in front of her. "To the commander's point only about a third of the attackers were using our weaponry. Most were using blades from Redania and even Skellige".

"Something no self-respecting man of Nilfgaard would ever allow himself to do" Voorhis added with a look to Vattier that said he did not mean to restart their debate.

"Obviously these are not self-respecting men of Nilfgaard if they are attacking our convoys, yes?" the Emperor added, exasperated.

"Quite true your Grace" breathed Count a'Arvy, the Imperial Treasurer.

"One man, a captain named Renauld de Wyngalt, claims the leader was carrying a blade he recognized to be the work of a…master Hattori, a master armorer in Novigrad".

For the first time the two "non-advisors" shared the briefest of looks.

"Do we have this…"

-Master Hattori your Grace, and yes we do" Carthia finished.

"And?"

"He claims the design specified is a fairly common design he began making in the first year of the war and estimates he has made another hundred since" the Intelligence Bureau's 2nd in command finished, carefully reading the exact words on the paper.

"Would this smithy have any reason to lie? Maybe he knows exactly who is carrying that blade but si-"

"What does it matter?"

The room stopped to turn towards the new speaker. Ciri got over her momentary anxiety and continued. "What does it matter if they are truly Nilfgaardian deserters or northerners in disguise?"

"Because my dear, if they are northerners then they must be rooted out and those that shelter them must be punished" Voorhis replied with no small amount of condescension.

"Elaborate Ciri" her _biological_ father commanded.

"If they were northerners masquerading as Nilfgaardians then it will simply be one of numerous attacks. These are hard people, the hardest people you've conquered, and there's a reason it took three invasions and a less than honorable assassination plot to get there". Eyes rolled or cast down but Ciri continued. "The more you punish them the more frequent, and the more brutal the attacks will get. This is not Nazir or Cintra. You cannot beat these people into submission."

It was Ciri's turn to cast her eyes down for a moment to cover a wry smile. " _We_ will end up investing more lives and treasure in the North than we get in return".

The room was silent for a moment. "And if they are our own people?" Emhyr voiced into the silence.

"Then we will see more defections. The Redanian Free Company, or the Aedernian Knights of Demawend, or the Kaedweni Dun Banner will continue to harangue and harass our forces until more northerners are killed or jailed than work the lands. They will not meet us in open battle again with a ten to one deficit as Cintra attempted. They will ambush and assassinate their way to a renegotiated peace deal".

"Such high esteem you hold our enemies in" Voorhis said with thick sarcasm. "Oh I continue to forget you are one".

"Are one what Commander Voorhis" the Emperor bit out each word through a tightened jaw.

Movran quickly wilted under Emhyr's withering gaze. "I meant a northerner of course Your Grace. Not an enemy surely".

"You're right commander. I have an attachment to the north that will never be extinguished. I have an even greater attachment to some people in the North. So I hope you appreciate the sacrifices I made to be here."

"Sacrifices that would be tempered by a peace your former comrades would benefit from"

"You speak to the next Empress!" the Chamberlain Mererid snapped from behind Ciri. She held up a hand accompanied by a look of gratitude for one of the few friends she had made since arriving in the Golden Towers.

"I would think peace benefits us all Commander". She flashed a predatory smile at the rival across the round table.

"Too right my dear. So what do you suggest?" an increasingly curious Emperor asked.

"I suggest _father_ extending the Temerian accords to all four major kingdoms of the north. They get to keep their royal houses, banners, and a reduced military. We get the taxes from thriving economies instead of oppressed ones, we get a pledge of allegiance from any king to take their thrones, we get an assurance of non-human rights and the banishment of all religious military orders, and maybe most importantly; we get a capable and motivated auxillary military force for when the Ofieri cross the sea again".

Ciri sat back and watched the faces of those around her grasp the political talents of the white-haired newcomer in their midst.


	5. Chapter 5

**epilogue**

"I hear some survivors claim they were not our own men" said Movran Voorhis over steeped fingers. The commander of the Alba Division, the most powerful regiment of the Nilfgaardian army, left no doubt as to what he thought of these spurrilous reports.

"Defections are at an all-time high" retorted Vattier de Rideaux, and the emperor's intelligence chief didn't know if he said it because he believed it to be valid, or because it contradicted Voorhis.

They were just two of the six advisors sitting in the Emperor's council chamber discussing the latest developments in their new territories. Only six Vattier mused as he still didn't consider the Emperor's daughter, Ciri, and her "advisor" Yennefer of Vengerburg, to be official in any capacity.

"What you call defections I call prisoners of war still being held by the Redanians and all the other two bit factions that still call themselves and independent nation" Voorhis retorted to de Rideaux's backhanded insinuation.

"You are kidding yourself Movran if you think the northerners still have the capability or infrastructure to hold even half the number of our men that are not returning to your _capable_ leadership".

Now Movran moved to stand. "Enough!" the emperor bellowed, slapping a hand to the Mettarin Oak table for emphasis. "These meetings will not be a forum for airing personal animosities".

Movran made a slight bow and retook his seat while Vattier held up a hand of apology.

"Good. Now continue with the report please" Emhyr motioned to de Carthia van Canten, who looked back down at the document in front of her. "To the commander's point only about a third of the attackers were using our weaponry. Most were using blades from Redania and even Skellige".

"Something no self-respecting man of Nilfgaard would ever allow himself to do" Voorhis added with a look to Vattier that said he did not mean to restart their debate.

"Obviously these are not self-respecting men of Nilfgaard if they are attacking our convoys, yes?" the Emperor added, exasperated.

"Quite true your Grace" breathed Count a'Arvy, the Imperial Treasurer.

"One man, a captain named Renauld de Wyngalt, claims the leader was carrying a blade he recognized to be the work of a…master Hattori, a master armorer in Novigrad".

For the first time the two "non-advisors" shared the briefest of looks.

"Do we have this…"

-Master Hattori your Grace, and yes we do" Carthia finished.

"And?"

"He claims the design specified is a fairly common design he began making in the first year of the war and estimates he has made another hundred since" the Intelligence Bureau's 2nd in command finished, carefully reading the exact words on the paper.

"Would this smithy have any reason to lie? Maybe he knows exactly who is carrying that blade but si-"

"What does it matter?"

The room stopped to turn towards the new speaker. Ciri got over her momentary anxiety and continued. "What does it matter if they are truly Nilfgaardian deserters or northerners in disguise?"

"Because my dear, if they are northerners then they must be rooted out and those that shelter them must be punished" Voorhis replied with no small amount of condescension.

"Elaborate Ciri" her _biological_ father commanded.

"If they were northerners masquerading as Nilfgaardians then it will simply be one of numerous attacks. These are hard people, the hardest people you've conquered, and there's a reason it took three invasions and a less than honorable assassination plot to get there". Eyes rolled or cast down but Ciri continued. "The more you punish them the more frequent, and the more brutal the attacks will get. This is not Nazir or Cintra. You cannot beat these people into submission."

It was Ciri's turn to cast her eyes down for a moment to cover a wry smile. " _We_ will end up investing more lives and treasure in the North than we get in return".

The room was silent for a moment. "And if they are our own people?" Emhyr voiced into the silence.

"Then we will see more defections. The Redanian Free Company, or the Aedernian Knights of Demawend, or the Kaedweni Dun Banner will continue to harangue and harass our forces until more northerners are killed or jailed than work the lands. They will not meet us in open battle again with a ten to one deficit as Cintra attempted. They will ambush and assassinate their way to a renegotiated peace deal".

"Such high esteem you hold our enemies in" Voorhis said with thick sarcasm. "Oh I continue to forget you are one".

"Are one what Commander Voorhis" the Emperor bit out each word through a tightened jaw.

Movran quickly wilted under Emhyr's withering gaze. "I meant a northerner of course Your Grace. Not an enemy surely".

"You're right commander. I have an attachment to the north that will never be extinguished. I have an even greater attachment to some people in the North. So I hope you appreciate the sacrifices I made to be here."

"Sacrifices that would be tempered by a peace your former comrades would benefit from"

"You speak to the next Empress!" the Chamberlain Mererid snapped from behind Ciri. She held up a hand accompanied by a look of gratitude for one of the few friends she had made since arriving in the Golden Towers.

"I would think peace benefits us all Commander". She flashed a predatory smile at the rival across the round table.

"Too right my dear. So what do you suggest?" an increasingly curious Emperor asked.

"I suggest _father_ extending the Temerian accords to all four major kingdoms of the north. They get to keep their royal houses, banners, and a reduced military. We get the taxes from thriving economies instead of oppressed ones, we get a pledge of allegiance from any king to take their thrones, we get an assurance of non-human rights and the banishment of all religious military orders, and maybe most importantly; we get a capable and motivated auxillary military force for when the Ofieri cross the sea again".

Ciri sat back and watched the faces of those around her grasp the political talents of the white-haired newcomer in their midst.


End file.
